


Come the Dawn

by shadowed_sunsets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Closure, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Ghost!Victor, Pirate adventures, Post series 4, Sherlock and John return to Musgrave, all the feelings, but mostly happy angst?, mentions of Sherlock's and Victor's childhood, midnight encounters on the beach, musgrave, vague discussion of what happened to Victor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 13:45:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12322233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/pseuds/shadowed_sunsets
Summary: Sometime soon after the events of TFP, Sherlock and John return to Musgrave seeking closure for everything that happened and for the shaking revelations about Sherlock's childhood. When Sherlock ventures out on his own in the middle of the night he finds himself standing on the shore near Musgrave just in time to greet an unexpected but very welcome ghost from his past.A seasonal Sherlock ghost story. Inspired by the beautiful art of 3bino3 on tumblr (http://3bino3.tumblr.com/post/164540413090/you-havent-changed-at-all-sherlock)





	Come the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of a small niggling idea that wouldn't let go and grew into... this. I hope this helps to offer Sherlock the closure I feel like he needs, and for giving Victor rest. Also its kind of the season for something supernatural ;)
> 
> Thanks to pipmer for all the cheerleading and writing help! And for the AD folks for their enthusiasm while I wrote this along with them.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

 

Sherlock was well aware that the plan- unspoken but still expressly understood by them both- was for him and John to journey out together to Musgrave from the inn early the next morning. He hadn’t minded John’s insistence on joining him, instead he found the idea very pleasant.

 

The last time he was at Musgrave, after having forgotten it for the majority of his life, he and John were forcibly separated and fighting to find each other all the while the imminent threat of John dying loomed over them. This time they planned on being together the entire time. A united front against whatever other memories may surface.

 

But once they checked into the inn and managed to put together a semblance of a meal, John had quickly fallen asleep from their long day of travel from London (Rosie had been particularly reluctant to let them out of sight that morning, even for a replacement of Mrs. H). So Sherlock was the only one awake in the single bed of their room, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling as his thoughts circled endlessly.

 

He and John had discussed this journey many times in the short but also endless period of time since John suggested it and Sherlock agreed- with less hesitation than he would have expected. John had worried what memories, especially awful ones, may rise to the surface given their last experience at Musgrave and the nightmares torturing him recently. But John also knew the importance of closure and struggling through the effort of replacing awful memories with good ones.

 

So here they were.

 

Finally Sherlock realized that sleep, in any form, would not be his friend that night. So he’d climbed out from under the covers, wrapped his coat around him for warmth, and trudged down the narrow stairs to what counted as the front lounge of the inn.

 

That night there was a nearly full moon which meant the moonlight filled the lounge through the curtainless windows with its pale light, casting shadows off the furniture. Foregoing the temptation of tea, Sherlock made his way to one of the windows that looked out onto the dirt path claiming to be a road as it cut through the trees.

 

The moonlight and clear sky allowed a continuous illuminated view of the landscape surrounding the inn, the trees and rolling hills stark against the midnight sky with pale dots of stars. Even though Musgrave was in a different direction than he was looking and far enough away it wouldn’t be visible even then, with the night tempered floorboards chilling his feet, the moonlight shining in on him illuminating everything except what he wanted to see, and the absolute, thrilling feeling of being the only one awake in the dark dead of night… somehow it felt like if he just stared long enough and looked hard enough he would be able to see it. Not the abandoned and forgotten fire torched shell of a home swallowed by horrible nightmarish memories he’d last seen in the dark. He wanted to see the Musgrave of his newly and slowly resurfacing memories; a home filled with sunlight and warmth of family,  smelling of (most of the time) delicious cooking and well-loved books, of adventures spent running further and further through the tall grass or trees,  laughing and playing by the water with the smell of salt water everywhere.

 

Something clenched around his heart and he knew without any doubt that if he went to Musgrave now that happier version in his memories was the version he would see.

 

Sherlock sprung into action, turning away from the window to hurry towards the hallway and the front door, buttoning his coat as he went. His mobile was still in his pocket, leaving him with a lifeline back to John just in case. It would be cold out given the hour and time of the year, so for just a moment Sherlock considered going back for his scarf.

 

But there wasn’t time. Something was drawing him towards Musgrave and Sherlock wasn’t about to risk the chance of missing out on whatever was happening.

 

He paused only long enough to toe on his shoes before pulling open the door and rushing out into the night.

 

~~~

 

Sherlock had planned to visit Musgrave first so he could rediscover what had once been his home. 

 

Instead, the closer Musgrave grew and the further through the woods he traveled, the more compelled he felt to head towards the water instead.

 

Last time they didn’t go even near the water. So it was years since Sherlock had stood at the shoreline and gazed out at what, as a boy, had seemed an endless expanse of water. Yet somehow his feet still knew the way and his path was sure as he turned away from the house. 

 

The grass path leading through the hills was vastly overgrown after so many years, narrowing his view to only a few footsteps ahead of him. Still, Sherlock knew without looking the moment the wild grass gave way to shifting sand beneath his shoes.

 

He had to stop to catch his breath, trying to wrangle his gasping into something that would provide necessary air. Everything seemed quiet and still around him, despite the logical part of his mind knowing there were creatures hiding in the grass and the woods. The moonlight and stars far above were the only ones watching.

 

Musgrave itself had of course featured frequently in his memories; for many years he hadn’t known anything else. Those memories resurfaced as a mixture of both happy and horrible remembrances while the ever-changing water with its safe harbour of shoreline featured just as often, yet were nearly always happy ones.

 

Deep waters, Mycroft had said. There may have always been hidden depths just beyond where he stood waiting for a misstep or a mistake, something out of reach just beyond his awareness. But it seemed that even as a boy Sherlock had never been afraid of water.

 

Sherlock took a deep, fortifying breath, and opened his eyes. Then he began moving forwards along the sand path, adjusting his balance as the sand constantly shifted under his shoes. The smell of grass and dirt gave way to the more pleasant smell of water and wet sand between one breath and the next, and Sherlock inhaled deeply.

 

To his annoyance the distance between him and the water never seemed to lessen, until he caught a glimpse of bright moonlight glinting off dark water just past the last grass covered hill ahead of him, and he started walking faster.

 

Sherlock stopped just past the last dune, sand kicking up from under his shoes. He had a sudden wild urge to kick off his shoes just so he could bury his toes in the sand.

 

The dark, moonlit expanse of water stretched out in front of him. A small part of him knew there had to be a shore somewhere in the distance on the other side of the water. But even now it was still hard to believe. It looked endless, especially with the reflection of the moon on the slightly rippled surface.

 

Sherlock remembered now that if he turned to look off to the right he would see the path of rocks piled onto each other to form a sort of bridge you could walk out on over the water. It was where Mycroft taught him how to skip rocks across the water and where they competed for who could get it further. It had taken him years to skip them as far as Mycroft could. 

 

A fuzzier memory came to him of being young and slightly afraid but very determined as he clutched Mycroft’s hands while they slowly walked over the rocks. He’d wanted to compare the rocks on the seapath with those on the sand next to the hills and had insisted over and over that Mycroft show him until his brother had finally given in.

 

It was bewildering looking back on how different his relationship with Mycroft had been when they were younger; even if now he knew just why it had changed so drastically. They’d both been forced to change.

 

An owl called out from somewhere in the woods just as a gust of wind blew from across the water, pushing Sherlock backward as it slipped inside his coat. Sherlock shivered, goosebumps bursting across his unprotected skin from the chilly night air. He pulled his coat tighter around his body and popped the collar to protect his bare neck. Perhaps he should have brought his scarf after all.

 

“Billy?”

 

No.  _ No.  _ It couldn’t be.

 

Suddenly he was unable to move, every muscle frozen, the blood turning to ice in his veins. Tendrils of fear and disbelief wrapped tightly around his newly restored heart, as his normally logical brain ground to an absolute stop. And when he finally managed to inhale it  _ hurt _ . 

 

This couldn’t be possible; he must have heard what sounded like a voice within the gust of wind. Or he was actually asleep and this was all a very vivid dream.

 

“Billy? Is that you?”

 

He hadn’t heard this voice in years; it had been left buried within his memories, forgotten along with his other memories of Musgrave and his childhood. Even here it didn’t seem real. Especially not standing here on the shore that had once been his playground, in the middle of the night during the time of year when the supernatural seemed more real. If one believed in those kinds of things.

 

That night with Eurus taunting and questioning him while John called more and more desperately in his ear, the sudden earth-shaking realization of the truth of Redbeard and Victor had been the final straw for everything to collapse around him. In his mind’s eye he’d glimpsed himself and Victor running around the grounds and along the shore playing at pirates- always their preferred game.

 

Until now those past memories had never overlapped with the ever changing landscape of his present reality.

 

“Billy? Hello?”

 

Sherlock inhaled slowly, trying to ignore the desperate rapid drumming of his heart in his ears. Even if this wasn’t real and in just a few minutes he would wake still lying on the bed in the inn with John, he still needed to be certain.

 

So Sherlock breathed out just as slowly in an attempt to steady himself; only then did he finally turn, feet shifting on the sand, to see for himself where the voice was coming from.

 

What he saw, the image burning itself into his brain to an extent that it would likely stay there permanently, was almost exactly what he’d imagined. And somehow, just like that, he was no longer scared. Instead, the silent, chilly night had become rich with possibility.

 

Whether it was reality or his dreaming mind playing tricks on him, standing there only steps away from him with the same bright red hair, thick checkered shirt, ridiculous purple bandana tied around his neck, dark wellies, and black eyepatch positioned lop-sided over one eye just as in his memories, was Victor.

 

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open on its own with an exclamation he found himself somehow unable to give a voice to. Victor’s face split into a wide grin as he beamed at Sherlock, incredibly pleased.

 

“I knew it was you!” The all-too familiar voice declared happily, just as young and innocent as Sherlock had heard it in his memories.

 

Sherlock knew he should say something to this specter; but for how relatively simple it was to say the name in his own private thoughts it was almost impossible to speak it aloud.

 

The specter of a boy frowned at Sherlock’s silence, the welcoming grin slipping away. “Billy? What’s wrong?”

 

Everything, was the honest answer. Here was the one part of his childhood he should have fought tooth and nail to keep his memories of, instead of replacing it with a cautious complicated warning. And now it was right in front of him, speaking to him.

 

“N-nothing,” Sherlock finally managed to say, his voice coming out as a croak. He swallowed and forcibly cleared his throat, the sound surprisingly loud in the quiet of the night. “I’m just surprised to see you.”

 

“I’ve been waiting,” Victor replied, his youthful voice a little chiding and mostly saddened. Even in the bright light of the moon a shadow passed rapidly across his face, a flickering reflection as if for a moment Sherlock was looking at him from under the water.

 

Sherlock remembered John trapped, chained, in the bottom of the well supported by long-forgotten bones as he struggled against the pouring water and the inevitable. Even fighting for his life John had been so kind about the bones he’d found; unlike the man who had never backed down from letting him know when he was acting a ‘bit not good.’ Eurus had never outright said what had happened to Victor, she’d been too insistent on repeating her sing-song riddle over and over. Yet all of them had known to some extent; even as a child Sherlock had been able to reach the logical conclusion.

 

Victor was still standing there, watching him silently. For all of these years while Sherlock had forgotten and lived on mostly in ignorance, had Victor really been here waiting?

 

“I’m sorry. I’ve… been away.” Sherlock found himself apologizing, feeling horrible at the idea of Victor being alone and stuck here all this time because of him. “This is the first time I’ve come back.”

 

Victor offered him a small smile, his eyes flickering over Sherlock as if he could see everything Sherlock had gone through until this moment. “You grew up.”

 

Sherlock laughed without really meaning to, the sound coming out weak and strained. “Some might say that.” But not many.

 

Victor frowned visibly in the moonlight, faking disapproval. The expression on his face was somehow so familiar Sherlock could tell Victor was teasing. “You got so tall.”

 

Half remembered conversations and boasts about who was taller and braver and a better pirate flared to life from the depths of his memories. 

 

It was the familiarity of it all and the fanciful situation that led Sherlock to reply, “One of us had to.” Then after a pause he reluctantly disclosed, “Mycroft’s still taller.”

 

Victor’s eyes lit up, the grin making a triumphant return. “Told you.”

 

It was strange remembering how he and Mycroft’s relationship had been so more amiable when they were younger. How his brother had willingly let Sherlock and Victor cast him as the villain in their adventures: the noble English captain whose ship or treasure the fearsome Captain Billy and Redbeard had to conquer to capture and save the day, or the sea monster or forest creature they had to defeat. All those adventures and Mycroft had never protested, not seriously.

 

Victor had been Sherlock’s only and best childhood friend, but he had also been just as much a part of Mycroft’s life. For a very brief moment Sherlock wondered if there were any surviving pictures left of their adventures. His memories, as many as he’d rediscovered now, felt incomplete.

 

“Victor-” Sherlock breathed, all of a sudden desperately needing to tell Victor just how sorry- not an adequate word at all- he was for what had happened to his best friend. As a child he had been unable to do anything to stop it. Now as an adult with his memories from that time returned to him, he was even more aware of the absolute helplessness of the situation. But back then-

 

“It’s okay, Billy. Not your fault,” Victor said simply, shaking his head. As if that was all that needed to be said, as if that would put an end to all of this, leaving them able to move on anew.

 

“Victor-” Sherlock tried again, still needing to apologize or at least to say the words aloud. He’d lived with the memory of Victor haunting his steps without even knowing it for years. And back here where it had all happened his very own personal ghost was now standing in front of him, offering him another chance. 

 

“You didn’t deserve what happened to you. You were my best friend and I just,” a ragged gasp escaped his lips, a painful storm of emotions clawing at his throat, “I couldn’t save you and then after everything I ended up forgetting you.”

 

“But you got to grow up,” Victor replied simply, like that was all that mattered and all of the rolling emotions currently inside Sherlock weren't important. “I'm glad you ended up okay, even if I didn't.”

 

Any words Sherlock was about to say now all clogged together in his throat. Why did the people who were the most important to him continue to place such a high value on his life and hold it to such an unachievable standard? Couldn't they see he destroyed or tainted everything he touched?

 

“Billy,” Victor called quietly, his steady voice cutting sharply through the dark thoughts rapidly encircling Sherlock.

 

Sherlock lifted his head to meet Victor’s eyes again, not having even realized he'd looked away out towards the water. 

 

Victor’s expression was honest, holding nothing back. “I had the best time running around having adventures with you, Billy. You were my best friend too.” Victor smiled cheekily at him. “You were like my brother, and your mum and dad and Myke were all good to me. It's, it's not your fault your sister didn't like me.”

 

‘Didn't like’ was an understatement. Eurus had actively tried to drive a wedge between him and Victor to permanently send the other boy away. As a child he'd dismissed the looks exchanged between his sister and Victor, too focused on their next adventure. But now from his memories Sherlock could remember the almost constant tension and hateful looks the two had shared. Her final act to separate him from Victor forever had been inevitable; but no one had succeeded in preventing it.

 

“I'm still sorry,” Sherlock whispered, eagerly drinking in the sight of his once very best friend. This Victor may be a ghost and not real... but it was so very good to see him. “Very, very sorry. I should have been able to find you, I should-”

 

He stopped mid sentence when Victor just smiled at him, one side of his mouth curling upward. “I don’t blame you, Billy. Really. I knew if anyone could find me you would.”

 

“But I didn’t, I didn’t find you, Victor. I failed you and you were all alone because I wasn’t smart enough to solve the riddle and save you-” Was he rambling? It felt like he was rambling but the words were just tumbling out of his mouth and he didn’t know how to stop them; this was just like when he’d finally remembered the truth of Victor and Redbeard amongst a flood of emotions and guilt and why couldn’t he just  _ stop? _

 

The quiet whisper of boots on sand and shifting clothing trickled through his racing thoughts, but he wasn’t able to focus long enough to identify the source. He could only see the night- darkened sand stretching out in front of him suddenly much closer than moments ago because apparently he had fallen to his knees in the sand without realizing.

 

His brain registered soft fabric covered arms wrapping comfortingly around his neck, followed by the reassuring gentle weight of another body leaning against him. Sherlock exhaled shakily, his racing heart slowing to a more natural pace as he began to calm. He didn’t receive embraces like this often, the most recent had been from John, but he was quickly learning just how wonderful they were.

 

“Victor,” Sherlock whispered quietly, the treasured name barely audible even with how close they were. A small, easily ignored part of his brain questioned how this was possible. Sherlock quickly smothered it and relaxed into the embrace instead.

 

After a brief pause he wrapped his arms tightly around the small body, fiercely wishing if he held Victor tightly enough his friend wouldn’t be torn away from him again. Sherlock closed his eyes with a soft sigh, resting his head against Victor’s.

 

“It’s okay, Billy. It’s okay,” Victor whispered just as softly in Sherlock's ear. His arms tightened briefly around Sherlock's neck, pulling him even closer.

 

Victor had reassured and promised his death was not Sherlock's fault and he didn't blame Sherlock several times already. But it wasn’t until finally this time that Sherlock was able to believe Victor and accept the forgiveness he was offering. 

 

Ever since he'd remembered what had happened to his childhood best friend, he'd been fiercely wracking his brain for any possibility where Victor would still be alive. Now he knew that Victor- even if this wasn't really Victor- wouldn't have blamed him.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled into the fabric covering Victor’s shoulder, trying to somehow express all of his gratitude for Victor being here and for his friend’s forgiveness in those two simple words.

 

But Victor, as he always had, seemed to understand. He tightened his arms for one last embrace before slowly pulling away, his arms slipping off Sherlock’s shoulders. 

 

Sherlock reluctantly let go of Victor in return. He attempted to smile at his friend, only to realize that for some reason everything seemed to have gone blurry around the edges.

 

Victor didn’t move any farther away, his small hands clutching at the heavy fabric of Sherlock’s coat. After a moment he giggled quietly, focusing on the red buttonhole near Sherlock’s collar. “It looks kind of like your pirate hat, Billy.” He raised one hand to poke a finger through the buttonhole. “That had a red patch too.”

 

Sherlock more or less managed to smile down at Victor, amused by the comparison of his coat with a pirate hat he didn’t quite remember. But he was sure he had once loved the hat just as much as he loved his coat now. “Well, this is my grown up pirate hat then,” he suggested, finding smiling easier once Victor laughed. 

 

“Victor,” Sherlock started but then paused to take a deep breath and prepare for what he was about to admit. As difficult as it was, he wanted Victor to know. “I’m not Billy anymore, I go by Sherlock now.”

 

Victor withdrew his finger from the buttonhole and released his grip on the fabric of Sherlock’s coat. He took a single step away, staring up at Sherlock. “But you never liked that name,” Victor protested, brow furrowed in confusion behind the eyepatch. “You always said it was too fancy for a pirate.” 

 

His parents did seem to prefer odd names, given how they’d named their children. He’d long suspected they were chosen more for the significance of family names than their historic meanings. But he could remember insisting as a boy to be called ‘Billy’; not William, Sherlock, or Scott, only Billy. He’d claimed it was the best name for a pirate Captain as fierce as him.

 

“For a pirate, yes,” Sherlock agreed with a faint nod. “But it's fitting for a consulting detective in London.”

 

The confused and slightly betrayed look quickly faded from Victor’s expression to be replaced with wide-eyed intrigue. Almost the same reaction when Sherlock had suggested a new adventure or game for them to play. 

 

“What’s a consulting detective?” He asked excitedly, stepping closer to Sherlock again. “And what’s London like? We always said we’d go there someday.”

 

“London is, well, even better than we imagined,” Sherlock offered, a faint smile curling his lips as he thought about his home in the city of London. He’d had so many adventures in London, both good times and bad. But he’d made it into a home to call his own. 

 

“And a consulting detective is a job I created for myself, I help both the police and private clients. Mostly it’s solving mysteries no one else can solve. Like helping find people…” Sherlock added silently,  _ and trying to make up for the fact that I wasn’t able to find you _ . Even with all the people he had helped to find or put away during his time as a consulting detective, now he knew about Victor it didn’t make up for his failure all those years ago.

 

But Victor smiled kindly and reached out to place his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “You haven’t really changed at all, have you Billy?” He asked quiet but fond, his grin bright in the moonlit night. “Sorry. I mean Sherlock.”

 

Honestly it felt like he’d gone through but change, especially in these last few years. Whether it was for the better or otherwise was still debatable, and might never be answered satisfactorily. Yet here was the childhood friend he’d forgotten and abandoned from his past, claiming he was still somehow recognizable as the boy who’d enjoyed pretending to be a pirate captain.

 

“I-” Sherlock began then trailed off when he didn’t know exactly what to say. How could he even begin to explain to Victor everything that had happened to him and all he’d done in the decades since they’d last seen each other. To put into words exactly just how much unlike the boy Victor had known all those years ago Sherlock was now.

 

Victor blinked at him, looking confused. He reached up a hand and pushed the eyepatch away from his eye to see Sherlock better. “Why are you upset? I’m glad you haven’t changed. I’ve missed you.”

 

“And I’m pleased to see you again,” Sherlock replied, trying to school his expression into something less obviously upset. “I came from London on a bit of a whim, actually. John and I agreed returning to Musgrave for another visit may provide some… closure for me about what happened. We didn’t exactly plan to come at this time of year.”

 

“‘John’?” Victor echoed, shifting on the sand in his dark wellies. He tugged the eyepatch off his head and crumpled it in his hand. “Who’s John?”

 

“John’s-” Sherlock found himself faltering, failing to find any words that accurately described John. They’d been a part of each other's lives for nearly five years now, if one counted Sherlock’s time away pretending to be dead. But even when they’d been estranged or fighting, or together even, Sherlock still couldn’t imagine his life without John Watson being a part of it.

 

Then Sherlock remembered what John had called him that unforgettable day when he’d asked Sherlock to be his best man. The two of them against the rest of the world, Sherlock had once said. 

 

“John… is my best friend,” Sherlock said slowly, astonished he could say that. Hopefully even now with all they had survived together Sherlock was still allowed to call himself that. “We live together and solve cases together. Throughout all we’ve been through John has been... indispensable.”

 

Victor was beaming at him now, and for a moment Sherlock was caught off-guard. Even with how much he cared about John and was glad to call him a friend, he would have thought Victor would be upset at being replaced. Or was it usual to have more than one friend? His first attempt at a best friend had gone so horribly wrong, and his second attempt with John had been fraught with obstacles.

 

“You found another best friend,” Victor said happily, stuffing his eye patch into a pocket of his trousers. “I’d hoped you would.” He tugged the sleeves of his checkered shirt down over his hands, curling his fingers around the cuffs. “I’m pleased you have someone like John to go on new adventures with.”

 

“Would you like to hear about some?” Sherlock asked impulsively, settling in where he was kneeling in the sand. Their more recent cases weren’t very well suited for a child audience, but there were a few older cases that hadn’t ended with any deaths or fatal injuries. Those would go well with the pirate adventures he and Victor had enjoyed.

 

“Yes, please!” Victor grinned, and dropped down to sit cross legged on the sand. He eagerly leaned in towards Sherlock, clasping his hands together.

 

_ Excellent _ . Sherlock shifted into a more comfortable position (mindless of the sand he was now sitting in), wrapped his coat tightly around himself, and began sharing stories of his and John’s cases.

 

Sherlock continued to tell Victor some of his favorite cases, even as a part of him absently noticed the dark night around them growing increasingly brighter and the stars dimming above them. 

 

Victor was a captive audience, laughing in delight and silent with anticipation in all the right places. Always staring at him with wide-eyed awe. It was how John had looked at him all those years ago at the very beginning, and how he was slowly coming around to looking at Sherlock again. Especially after their recent reconciliation.

 

Just as he was finishing the tale of the French decathlete and the one thousand, eight hundred and twelve empty matchboxes except for one, his forgotten mobile buzzed from the depths of his coat pocket.

 

“Just a second,” Sherlock said, cutting himself off in the middle of a sentence. He reached into the pocket of his coat to dig out his still buzzing mobile. If it was Mycroft or Lestrade Sherlock would likely ignore it; but if it was John, having discovered Sherlock was no longer in the room or even in the inn with him, Sherlock knew he needed to answer.

 

“What’s that?” Victor asked curiously, leaning forward as Sherlock held up his mobile to see the screen. It was no longer buzzing but there were two new text notifications, both from John.

 

_ From John: _

_ Sherlock where are you? I thought we agreed you wouldn’t run off on your own again. _

 

_ From John: _

_ Seriously Sherlock where did you go? I can't find you. Answer please. _

 

Sherlock swiped his thumb across the screen of his phone to unlock it. Then he opened his messages to reply and reassure John before the man flew into full panic.

 

“It’s John,” Sherlock finally answered Victor, starting to rapidly type out a reply. “He wants to know where I’ve gone. It seems he’s discovered I left him behind at the inn.”

 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Victor scolded, slowly shaking his head. “No one likes being left behind.”

 

Sherlock’s fingers froze above the keyboard of his phone, one tap away from sending the message to John. He tore his eyes away from the screen to study Victor instead, surprised by the comment.

 

But Victor didn’t actually look upset even if his words had given that impression. Instead he was making an attempt to give Sherlock a mock-serious chiding look. “You should tell him where you are, I’d like to meet him.”

 

That… actually sounded like a wonderful idea. “All right,” Sherlock replied agreeably, turning his attention back to his phone (and hoping his cheeks felt warm for a different reason).

 

Sherlock deleted the message he’d previously typed and been about to send then started typing out a different, much shorter one.

 

_ To: John _

_ No need to worry. I’m on the beach near Musgrave. Come join me. SH. _

 

He waited for John’s reply while Victor squirmed excitedly where he sat in the sand. It took longer than he’d expected, even after the bubble with the dots indicating John was typing appeared.

 

But finally with a quiet ‘whoosh’ John’s response appeared below his previous text.

 

_ From: John _

_ I’m going to need better directions Sherlock. I don’t have the same psychic navigation abilities as you. Also, do you know how early it is? _

 

Sherlock chuckled quietly under his breath at John’s obvious token protest. Their shared history had proven John would follow him anywhere at any time, no matter what. Or at least he had. Of course John would want better directions and think Sherlock’s extensive detailed knowledge of London would apply wherever they went, despite that they’d only been near Musgrave once.

 

Sherlock had left the inn in something of a daze without really noticing the exact path he’d taken to the shore. Somehow his feet had known the path to take that would bring him here to the water instead of to Musgrave itself where he’d initially meant to go. 

 

Nonetheless Sherlock did his best to give John directions that would safely lead him through the forest, along the grass path, and finally to the shore where Sherlock and Victor were waiting. Hopefully it wouldn’t take John long and he wouldn’t get lost.

 

“John is on his way,” Sherlock announced, tucking his mobile away back in his pocket. 

 

Victor smiled happily at him, shifting so he could hug his knees to his chest. Behind him across the water the sky had grown even brighter in the time since Sherlock had last looked; now the light expanding across the horizon nearly matched the flame colour of Victor’s hair.

 

“Billy?” Victor questioned, narrowing his eyes with worry. When Sherlock didn’t reply, eyes locked instead on the ever-brightening skyline, Victor turned his head to look in the same direction.

 

“Oh,” Victor said quietly, barely a whisper of breath. “I’ll have to leave soon.”

 

Of course; wasn’t that how all the stories went?

 

“I’ll tell you more of our adventures in the meantime.” Sherlock suggested, shifting closer to Victor. He didn’t want to risk attempting to embrace Victor again, as wonderful as it had been. Sherlock could be happy enough being allowed to embrace Victor just the once. He had been given this chance, for whatever reason, so he was willing to take anything he could and would cherish it. He knew all too well what it was like when everything was taken away.

 

“First finish the one about the athlete! What happened with the matchboxes?” Victor insisted, leaning forward in his eagerness.

 

“Ah, right. Well-”

 

Sherlock was able to finish the tale about the French athlete, reveling in Victor’s genuine surprise at the final reveal, and was nearly halfway through their adventure with the little person and the blow darts when he heard footsteps approaching.

 

Although it was likely only John, since it was far too early for anyone else to be out wandering around, Sherlock stopped talking and turned to greet the newcomer.

 

He heard John’s footsteps pushing through the long grass even before he could make out John’s muttered curses as he struggled along the sandy path. Sand was not the easiest to walk in while wearing shoes, especially when the sun had barely begun to rise and didn’t provide any light. But it sounded like John was having particular difficulty.

 

Victor was sniggering quietly behind hands poorly covering his mouth, his eyes shining as John’s curses and footsteps came closer. Sherlock flashed Victor a grin then turned back just in time to see John appear from between the grass covered dunes to stand at the very edge of the sand.

 

He watched as John scanned the stretch of water that was just beginning to shimmer with light from the rising sun. John looked up and down the sandy beach only to find it empty.

 

When John finally looked in the direction of where Sherlock and Victor were sitting, Sherlock greeted his friend with a warm smile and a sarcastic, “How nice of you to join us, John.”

 

“Shut up,” John shot back, also grinning. “Your directions were shit, I nearly got lost.”

 

Sherlock was about to respond, but instead he watched silently as John’s gaze slid past him to settle on where Victor sat an arms length away. When John realized not only was Sherlock not alone but that there was a young boy with him, John’s expression shifted from the boyish, teasing grin he’d given Sherlock to the placid facade John wore when facing the majority of the public.

 

“Hello there,” John greeted kindly, taking a few steps forward across the sand towards them both. “It’s a bit early to be out, isn’t it?”

 

Sherlock frowned at his friend, faintly confused by the question. He glanced at Victor, who was looking silently between them, and then back to John. 

 

It was finally the lack of recognition in John’s gaze that led him to the realization that John thought Victor was just a boy from the village Sherlock had befriended. John didn’t know who Victor was, which made sense since Sherlock had yet to introduce them and he’d never seen pictures (which probably didn’t exist).

 

Sherlock often preferred the company of children to adults, with very few exceptions. John had always been excellent with children no matter the situation, leaving Sherlock to hope that once John accepted he now had a daughter to take care of the other man would realize Rosie was lucky to have him as a father. John Watson would be the best father a child could ask for.

 

It was promising that John reacted so well to Victor, which meant perhaps proper introductions were in order.

 

Sherlock shifted his position so he could see both John and Victor without having to turn his head. “Victor, this is John Watson,” he announced, relishing the ability to introduce John so familiarly.

 

John,” he said turning to John and gesturing at Victor who was watching them both expectantly, “I’d like to introduce you to Victor.”

 

“Victor,” John greeted with a friendly smile, “It’s nice to-”

 

“Victor Trevor,” Sherlock finished, fighting to keep his voice level. He needed to stay calm, he couldn’t let all of this start to finally affect him now.

 

For several long, horrible seconds John didn’t appear to react, staring blankly at Sherlock. At the same time Sherlock swore he could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he awaited John’s reaction to the seemingly impossible.

 

Finally John’s face seemed to collapse as he dropped heavily down onto the sand, sadness creeping into the corners of his eyes. John’s head slowly turned as if it were moving on its own to study Victor more closely.

 

“You’re… Victor Trevor.”

 

Victor, either not noticing or not commenting on John’s reaction on purpose, smiled shyly at John. “And you’re John Watson. Billy’s been telling me about your adventures.”

 

“Billy?” John echoed, glancing over at Sherlock in his confusion.

 

Victor not quite rolled his eyes, tongue between his teeth as he nodded towards Sherlock. “He goes by Sherlock now.”

 

“Of course,” John replied agreeably, surprisingly not teasing Sherlock about the nickname. “I still want to hear all about little pirate Sherlock.” He turned slightly to smile warmly at Victor. “And his best first mate, of course.”

 

Victor smiled back at him. “Billy had a pirates hat, but I had an eyepatch,” he announced, digging a hand into his pocket to pull out the crumpled eyepatch to show John. “And we both had swords so we could properly defeat our enemies.”

 

“I’m sure the two of you were very widely feared,” John said conspiratorily, taking a moment to lean over and admire Victor’s eyepatch. “I’d love to hear about some of your adventures. Pirates always have the best adventures.”

 

Seeing John and Victor sitting close together in the sand talking seriously about pirates, Sherlock decided to encourage the same enthusiasm for pirates and pirate stories in Rosie. There must be some place to purchase the appropriate pirate hat, eye patch, and fake sword, for her adventures. Afterwards, properly attired, he, John, and Rosie could create their own adventures.

 

Victor’s face lit up, eyes shining with his eagerness to share tales of his and Sherlock’s triumphs as pirates. He was really the better choice to tell such stories. Sherlock’s memories of his childhood were still only returning to him in fragments, and he had never been a very talented storyteller (that was more John’s talent). And if Sherlock allowed himself to think about such things for only a moment, it was decades since Victor had someone to share such stories with.

 

“We did have some really great adventures,” Victor told John enthusiastically, leaning in closer towards him. 

 

Glancing past Victor Sherlock suddenly noticed a new line of orange-red sunlight creeping along the horizon and how now Victor’s skin somehow seemed significantly paler than before. 

 

In the meantime, Victor was now gesturing wildly, “One time we were nearly marooned on an island in the middle of the ocean! Luckily Myke came along in his ship and so we could hijack it and escape.”

 

“‘Myke’?” John echoed, smiling freely as he became completely absorbed in Victor’s story and the memories associated with it.

 

Victor himself was too absorbed in the telling of the story to notice as Sherlock did that the brighter the sky and the light across the horizon grew, the paler and less defined Victor became.

 

Sherlock wanted to be able to focus all of his attention on Victor’s retelling of their adventures and to reminisce with him about their shared memories. But the logic driven part of his brain refused to move past observing how with every passing minute Victor grew paler and more transparent to the point where Sherlock was having difficulty seeing him.

 

Finally Sherlock couldn't keep quiet any longer, he needed to point it out before Victor could possibly fade away completely. He had to interrupt Victor’s story to say, “Victor, you're… fading.”

 

Victor stopped mid-word to turn and stare at Sherlock, brow wrinkled in confusion. “What?”

 

Now that Victor was looking directly at him Sherlock realized that it wasn’t Victor’s hair that was the color of the sunset; it was that he could see the reddening horizon through Victor.

 

“You’re fading,” Sherlock repeated himself, unable to find any other term for what he was witnessing. He waved his hand in Victor’s general vicinity. “I can barely see you anymore.”

 

Victor tilted his head slightly to one side at Sherlock then held his hands out palms up to stare at them. Sherlock looked as well, and out of the corner of his eye he could see John glance that way. Which meant they could all see how Victor’s hands were almost completely faded now, the outlines completely translucent compared to the rest of Victor’s fading outline.

 

“Oh,” Victor said quietly, staring sadly down at his hands. “I- I can’t stay, I have to leave.” He turned to look over his shoulder at the brightening skyline.

 

“Victor-” Sherlock protested, hearing how weak his voice sounded. He wanted to say more, to find the right words to convince Victor to stay because even these several hours tonight wasn’t enough to make up for decades without his best friend. Especially now he only just realized Victor had existed and what happened to him.

 

But even now his time was ending, and Victor was being taken away again.

 

“Not even for a little longer?” John attempted to persuade, sounding practically calm compared to Sherlock who felt like more of an emotional storm inside.

 

Sherlock wiped the sleeve of his coat over his face then glanced over towards John. When his eyes were clear again Sherlock saw John smiling reassuringly back at him, as silently supportive as he always was.

 

“I really can’t,” Victor said as he turned back to them, smiling wistfully. “I can only stay until sunrise and it’s already started.”

 

“So, we have to say goodbye then,” Sherlock realized with a quiet sigh, heart beating wildly in his ears. He tore his eyes away from Victor to stare out at the sunset so he wouldn’t have to continue watching Victor disappear. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

He didn’t realize Victor had moved at all until the faint weight of arms wrapped around his shoulders, and Victor’s voice whispered quietly in his ear, “Please don’t be sad, Billy. It was so good to see you again. I’m happy you got to grow up.”

 

It wasn’t quite the same comforting warm embrace as before. This was barely a memory of that embrace. But, it did still help. A little.

 

“Thank you, Victor,” Sherlock whispered shakily, breathing unevenly. “I’m glad I could see you again.” He brought his arms up to wrap them around Victor one last time, but they seemed to just go through the air where Victor should be.

 

He refused to open his eyes, to see  what was happening to Victor. “Thank you for being my friend, Victor. Thank you for all the wonderful adventures.” He drew in a ragged breath, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears away. “I won’t forget you again.”

 

“I know you won’t,” Victor whispered back, the words fading away into the wind as soon as he spoke them. “But you have John now. You two have your own adventures.”

 

“I can have two best friends,” Sherlock pointed out with a fragile laugh, remembering those many years ago when he had told John he didn’t have friends, he only had one. He was constantly being proved wrong it seemed.

 

Victor laughed quietly in Sherlock’s ear, tightening his arms briefly though Sherlock could barely feel it anymore. “Take care of yourself, Billy. And look after John.”

 

“I will, I promise I will,” Sherlock promised, making a silent vow that from now on he would do everything he could to keep John and Rosie happy and safe. And perhaps do better at taking care of himself.

 

In between one breath and the next the warmth of Victor’s embrace and presence disappeared, and somehow without even opening his eyes Sherlock knew Victor was gone. He and John were completely alone on the beach.

 

Sherlock heard John climb to his feet, grunting quietly when his knees protested, before making his way through the sand to where Sherlock was still kneeling. John stopped just in front of him, and Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes to stare down at the sand now all lit by the rising sun.

 

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John asked quietly, reaching out to rest his hand lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

Sherlock slowly lifted his head to stare at John’s hand on his shoulder. Then he raised his eyes to look up at John who met his eyes with patient, fond, concern that was wonderful to see.

 

Sherlock managed a weak smile, eyes still a little wet. “I’m fine,” he told John, trying to climb to his feet and finding his legs were stiff from sitting so long in the cold.

 

When he was finally able to stand, John’s hand wrapped around his upper arm for support, Sherlock turned to his friend. “There’s no reason to stay here any longer,” Sherlock announced, the truth of the words making him feel just as certain as he ever was. “Let’s go home to London.”

 

“Are you sure?” John asked quietly, trying to make sure while not putting any pressure on him. 

 

Instead of answering right away Sherlock turned, sweeping his gaze back and forth along the beach, cementing it in his mind palace along with the memory of Victor’s ghost. 

 

He and John had returned to Musgrave seeking some kind of closure for the events that had happened in his childhood and just recently. Sherlock had believed he needed to visit Musgrave Hall and confront his memories of that place in order to find the closure he wanted. But in reality it appeared he had really needed the forgiveness and reassuring words of his best friend as a child to be able to move and create a new life of his own with John, and Rosie, and perhaps even Mycroft.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said decisively, turning to confidently meet John’s gaze. “It’s time to go home, to Baker Street.”

 

 


End file.
